


Billy Idol Baby

by House_of_Ares, vampirekilmer



Series: Pandora's Music Box [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Barebacking, Breathplay, Collars, D/s, Deep Throating, Do not expose to light or heat, Explicit Language, Light Bondage, M/M, Minimal Lube, Minimal Prep, Orgasm Control, Rough Sex, Sex Work Roleplay, abuse of a perfectly good Alice Cooper song, and avoid spraying directly on food, keep out of the reach of children and pets, possible abuse of U2, redemption of a really awful Kelis track
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-27
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 16:32:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/House_of_Ares/pseuds/House_of_Ares, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirekilmer/pseuds/vampirekilmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I've never seen you look sketchy before.  I followed you down here.  Remind me we need to do remedial training on getting rid of tails."  Coulson has to talk loud over the music, but four feet away no one can hear them.</p>
<p>"I didn't know you danced in clubs," he says, and grins again.  "You come here often?"</p>
<p>Sometimes, he has to go where nobody knows his name.  Being followed wasn’t part of the deal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Billy Idol Baby

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

 

Coulson's sitting near the window of the Starbucks on the first floor, enjoying one of his very-occasional cigars, when he sees Barton go across the street, backpack slung over his shoulder.

Barton has three main modes of foot travel: a stalk, a fearless on-target stride, and his shit-hot swagger; and this is not one of the three.  He looks damned near furtive, in fact, and Coulson slides away from the table.  Bells on the door jangle behind him as he follows, careful to stay far enough behind, and when Barton looks behind him, he drifts into doorways and crowds.

 

-~-~-~-

 

Four blocks from the Avengers Tower Clint ducks into the subway, checking over his shoulder every few minutes. It’s been weeks since he got out last and he’s  literally  been climbing the walls of the Avengers tower, just itching to get lost for a night. The Fantastic Four are in town, and if anything truly apocalyptic happens he has his phone; the rest of the world can go fuck itself.  
  
Hopping off at the Broadway-7th Avenue local, he walks a few more blocks before ducking into an Irish pub. He weaves through the patrons lined up for their Friday Night Specials, drops a $10 in the bartender’s jar and slips into the dim bathroom and locks the door, drops his pack.

 

Quickly toeing off his shoes, he strips down completely and hums some nameless dance song, head bobbing with the rhythm as he stuffs his clothes in the bag and pulls out new ones; a black tank top and a pair of old jeans so thin and worn they’re about to fall off his hips, a pair of Nikes, and his shades tucked into his back pocket. He digs a black eyeliner pencil out of the front pocket of the bag and leans across the counter to run a thick line around his eyes, combs his hair up and sprays it.  Everything stuffed back in his back and double checked, he throws it over his shoulder and heads out.

  


-~-~-~-

 

Barton surprises him, ducking into the pub.  It's nowhere he would have expected the archer to go, and he hangs outside across the street and waits.  If he's going to catch Barton doing something compromising, he'll have to wait until a little bit of drunk and relaxed has set in. He settles in the inset doorway of a shop that probably was a start-up in the 1920s, leans against the glass, and watches.

 

Frankly, he hardly recognizes Barton when he emerges - clothes changed, looking more dramatic although he can't quite put his finger on it.  He looks ....well, slutty. 

 

Coulson shrugs a shoulder lightly, subconsciously checking his pistol, and follows again.

 

-~-~-~-

  
It's just another block up to Cielo. The sidewalk is vibrating with a heavy bass beat, and a line out front wraps halfway around the building; he pulls his shades out and slides them on as he dodges along the outside of the line. Before he can even make it up the steps the bouncer waves him through with a slap on his shoulder as he goes by. A perk of not being Cap or Stark, almost no one on the street would recognize him like this.   
  
Inside is less a building and more a cavern. Tables everywhere, one whole wall is the bar. A huge dance floor takes center stage and dancing cages are connected to a catwalk around the whole room. Straight to the bar and Clint ditches his bag with his favorite bartender who smiles and hands him a double of ice cold Grey Goose that Clint slams back before being nodded to the stairs to the left of the bar.   
  
Clint takes them two at a time up to the catwalk and follows it around towards the back wall - it's a bit darker here and he can see the whole room. Plus, it's right over the subs. One of the girls smiles and gives him a peck on the cheek, letting him take her place just as a wickedly throbbing beat starts up.   
  


-~-~-~-

  
Coulson’s confused. The meatpacking district?  Of course, it has a little different connotation now.  Everyone’s queued up and he’s hardly in clubbing clothes - unless his usual suit counts - but he goes up to the bouncer and says “I’m with Clint Barton, just a little late,” and he’s waved through.  
  
It’s fucking ridiculous - Barton, known at a place like this?  The original brooding, leave-me-alone-I’m- shooting guy?  Coulson shrugs to adjust the shoulder holster and moves through the club, looking around without making it obvious. There are a dozens of people here, and all he noticed about Barton were the jeans and black tank top.  That narrows it down a little, but not much.  He orders a drink from the unimpressed-looking bartender and takes it to a dark corner to watch.  
  


-~-~-~-

  
Halfway through the song and he's already sweating through his shirt. He's not directly under any lights, but still close enough to the rafters that the air is muggy. 9 to 5 he’s all business, a sniper in the shadows; but here he can unwind in relative anonymity, let all that energy and tension under his skin sweat off and drip away. And if it happens he can indulge in a bit of exhibitionism, well he’s certainly not complaining.  
  
But tonight he's just there to unwind, and he peels the damp cotton over his head and drops it in the corner of the dance cage.   
  
Grabbing the bars he drops and then rolls back up, pops his ass out far enough to make J-Lo jealous and smiles bright at the first wolf whistle of the night. Hands braced wide and he rolls his hips from side to side for a minute, eyes scanning the room.   
  
His acrobat training’s put to good use as he arches his back and reaches over his head for the bars behind him, slipping down and bending his knees so he can roll his hips upwards, slow and filthy in rhythm with the song.

-~-~-~-

  
He's scanning the crowd, but Barton's not there.  
Movement up on the catwalk catches his eye and he sees one of the cage dancers exiting, a new one taking her place, and a man no less. That’s when he notices the broad shoulders under the black tank top roll back to release tension in the muscles, a knuckle push up the outside bottom corner of the shades.  
Now that he sees that familiar movement, he realizes that under the red-tipped fauxhawk and makeup, the gyrating body in the cage is his asset - emphasis on the first syllable tonight.  
A kid - he's barely legal if he is at all - brushes up against him.  He's in shredded jeans, a T-shirt that leaves nothing to the imagination, and a spiked collar.  
"You lookin' tonight?" the kid says, and he catches the glint of a tongue piercing when it flicks over lip.  
"Looking, but you're not my type," he says with a mild grin, and the kid fucking near pouts as he saunters away and hits on the next guy that looks like he has money.  
Yes, he's looking - but only at Barton, who’s more naked in jeans than most of the people wearing less.

-~-~-~-

  
Half an hour into the night and Clint is starting to pant, and there's a decent sized crowd gathered near the bottom of his cage watching. The sweat is beading across his shoulders and rolling down his spine, soaking into the waistband of his jeans that have only  just managed to not fall off.   
  
A whole group of cougars making less-than-subtle gestures are there with the usuals, and he plays pretty boy toy for them. Opening the door of the cage, he wipes his hands quickly on his jeans before climbing around the outside of it.  
  
There, hanging out over the crowd, he braces his feet between the bars and holding on with one hand leans back and arches hard, pressing his hips up against the cage and grinding, biting at his bottom lip to hide the smirk at the sudden ruckus below. There's a half dozen whistles, plenty of girly squeals, and one guy just yells over the crowd offering Clint a blowjob.  
  
When the song is over he pointedly lowers himself slowly onto the floor, still holding onto the outside of the cage before dropping the last two feet. He's immediately surrounded by fawning men and women, all making passes and offers of various sorts, several of them stuffing bills into his pockets and waistband. Clint smiles and slowly starts making his way back to the bar, a predatory swagger to his stride.  
  


-~-~-~-

  
He may be straitlaced, but his mother didn't raise him to be stupid.  There has been tension between them for months now, Barton pushing and him pushing back.  It almost hit critical mass a couple of months ago in Puente Antigua, but things got overcome by events.   
  
Anyway, if Barton didn't want to be followed, he should’ve taken a cab.   
  
He moves through the crowd, sliding easily between people and bumping those who don't move, and he pulls out four of the twenties he got at the ATM early this afternoon. Barton's at the bar, gulping down a bottle of water, and he steps up, tucks the bills into the waistband of his jeans.   
  
“Nice dance,” he says, and grins.   
  


-~-~-~-

  
Clint is in the middle of taking a drink when he feels crisp bills being slid into his jeans, tucked in against his hip by a warm hand. It's all well and good, nothing out of the ordinary, but the voice that's in his ear makes him freeze and half choke on his drink, sputtering.   
  
Spinning around, he realizes that he wasn't imagining things;  it was his _handler_ standing in the middle of a nightclub that had just tipped him as he got out of the gogo cage.  
  
He coughs and clears his throat, wincing. "Sir?" He asks, voice raspy and he coughs again. "What the  fuck are _you_ doing here?" And Clint can't help looking around half expecting to see the rest of the team.  
  
"I've never seen you look sketchy before.  I followed you down here.  Remind me we need to do remedial training on getting rid of tails."  Coulson has to talk loud over the music, but four feet away no one can hear them.  
"I didn't know you danced in clubs," he says, and grins again.  "You come here often?"  
  
"Well, I, um," and Clint couldn't help blushing bright red and looking down at the floor, a hand going up to rub at the back of his neck in a rare moment of awkwardness. Fuck, this is ten kinds of weird he thinks, staring at the rainbow swirl of club lights reflected on the top of Coulson's polished shoes.  
Clint had deliberately never told anyone about this, though a few times he’d seen Natasha down on the dance floor, smiling up at him like the cat who got the canary - thankfully the only way she ever mentioned it was putting on a few of his favorite songs whenever they sparred.   
It made his hackles stand up on end to think that Fury had sent Coulson as his babysitter, or worse to tell him that it was an inappropriate use of his free time; he could use the archery range whenever he liked, but this was all his own.  
"No, not too often," he finally manages to answer and looks back up at Coulson, jaw set hard. But his handler kept grinning at him; at it was disarming to see him look this relaxed, with a dark glint in his eyes. Clint takes another swallow of water. “ You come here often?" He asks, curious to see how Coulson will respond.  
  
" _Never_.  This music is terrible. Too many people." He gestures at Barton's face, not touching, when it clicks. "You're wearing makeup."  
  
 _Makeup_?  "Oh yeah, the eyeliner." Clint shrugs and tips his water back to finish it in two gulps. "Part of the look," and he lets himself smile, relaxing because for some reason Coulson wasn’t here for work, and he’d been watching Clint dance.   
  
"Are you going back up there?"  
  
The way he'd moved was unnaturally erotic. He's seen Barton break out his acrobatics training occasionally on missions - grabbing a rope at just the right time, managing difficult leaps, bending around awkward corners.  Seeing it in fluid motion, that's new, and that's intriguing too.  
  
"Was probably going to go back up in a few minutes, but I needed a break and the girls need the space to dance." He leans back against the bar, watching the agent with narrowed eyes, wondering how long Coulson had known he came here, how long has he been watching? The thought made his skin prickle.  
  
"You got a problem with my dancing, sir?" he asks, because it needs an answer, and any direct question about Coulson’s propensity for following Clint to clubs would just be rebuffed.   
  
“I pretty much have no problem with whatever keeps my assets sane,” he says easily. That's true; it's a high-stress job as it is. However a person blows off steam, as long as it's legal, isn't something he's concerned about.  
He is, however, surprised as  _hell_ , but he doesn't show it.  
“If you need to dance, then that's your thing.”  
He's certain that Barton remembers all the policies, the occasional urinalysis testing, yearly physicals, reprimands for STIs. He's not terribly worried. But still. He had no idea Barton could dance like that.  
  
Clint nods, lets his smile slide into a smirk. "Glad to know I have your approval, sir.”   
Coulson’s still standing there with his hands loosely tucked into his pockets, surrounded mostly by people a decade or more younger than him, completely at ease and looking at Clint expectantly. Judging by his smile he might even be enjoying himself, and  isn't that interesting?  
He lets his eyes rake the senior agent from head to toe and back again, noting that the front of his charcoal gray slacks seems to be a bit tight, wondering just how far he should push at this thing between them; how far  would his handler would let him go?  
"Anybody ever tell you that three-piece Armani is a bit much for a club?" Clint asks, head cocked to one side.  
  
“The kid that just tried to pick me up didn't seem to think so,” he says. Prostitution is hardly unusual, but he never really thought about it happening in places like this. It's not really a SHIELD concern.  
Then he pauses, considering, and cocks his head. That's normal in these places, eh? He steps closer, leaning up to talk closer to Barton's head.  
  
“How much for the night?” he asks, and grins.  
  
And if that didn't just knock the breath right out of Clint, leaving him to fall back on years of training as a spy and assassin to eloquently bite the inside of his cheek to keep from doing something really embarrassing like moaning aloud.   
"Well, I don't know, sir. Kinda depends on what you're asking for - and what you have to offer." Clint says, voice suddenly gruff,  fingers reaching to tug at the cuff of Coulson's jacket, heartbeat half a step faster because hell if Clint knows what he's doing.  
"Take it off. "  
  
The response sets him back on his heels a bit – he was joking, maybe fishing a little bit to see if Barton was doing something other than just dancing as his way of burning off extra energy. Now, he's not sure whether to play along, deck him, or tell him he's going in for a full battery of testing on Monday.  
Still, he's got no evidence that Barton's hustling on the side – maybe he's bluffing.  
He hesitates about losing the jacket – he's carrying, of course, and he's not leaving his 1911 just anywhere. The coat-check girl will probably lose her mind when she feels it, anyway. And the jacket is security – not exactly Kevlar, but it's his protection, keeps him aloof and different. It's also hot as fuck in here.  
He slides it off, taking the holster with it easily, wraps the pistol in fabric. “You got a place for it? It's heavy.”  
  
Clint takes the jacket, careful to wrap it securely around the shoulder holster and pistol inside it before turning around and yelling down the bar. "Josh!," and the tall redhead walks over, a smug smile on his face. "Something I can help you with, gorgeous," he asks, leaning forward on his hands and still a head taller than Clint. "My stuff, keep it safe," he replies, holding up the tightly folded jacket and passing it to him before turning back to Coulson and stepping away from the bar.  
Coulson looks calm as can be to any untrained observer, but Clint can see the hint of that muscle twitch he gets in his jaw when dealing with certain people too long, mostly Fury. Clint has always gotten his kicks from hassling his superiors, and this is no exception. It's just too damn easy because he finally has Coulson out of his element, but knows the former Ranger isn't about to back down just because he's uncomfortable.  
  
Moving until he's right at the edge of Coulson's personal space, Clint reaches up and tugs at the knot of his tie, loosening it until he can slide it free from under the agent's collar and drape it around his own neck, the red silk the same shade as the tips of his hair. Deft fingers make quick work of the top two buttons, and when Clint's fingers not so accidentally brush against his throat, he can see where Coulson swallows.  
  
"Sleeves," is all he says, indicating that Coulson should unbutton them and roll the cuffs up.  
  
“I'm not dancing with you, Barton,” he says.  
First the jacket and pistol, now the tie; he feels  naked in this thrumming crowd of people and the throbbing music, and he pockets his cufflinks and rolls his sleeves up almost grudgingly. The tie around his neck looks surprisingly good. Getting Barton into a tie or anything beyond tactical around his neck is surreal.  
Still, having the jacket off and his forearms mostly bare cools him off a little.   
“Now. Get out there and dance.”  
  
Clint smirks broadly and gives a sloppy salute. "Yes sir," he says, and winks before sauntering off, doing his best hot-shit walk. He can feel Coulson watching him the whole way and he puts a bit of a sway in his hips as he struts across the middle of the dance floor, weaving in and out of people, swaying in time as he deliberately presses in between a couple of college girls and lets them all but climb him for a minute.  
  


-~-~-~

  
At the far side of the dance floor is one of the most prominent cages in the club; just a little bit bigger than the others, and a good number of spotlights focused on it, straight view of the DJ's booth. One of his favorite girls, Marie, is currently inside, booty-dancing hard and fast to Santogold. He stands just in front of the cage and watches for a moment till he catches her eye and she laughs, a wicked glint in her eye as she crooks a finger at him. He smiles and steps to just under the edge of the cage and reaches up, hands just grasping the bottom of the bars.   
Slowly he pulls himself up, letting the thick muscles across his arms and shoulders flex and tense, knowing just how his sweaty back must look under all the club lights, jeans just barely slipping over the curve of his ass. By the time his chin is level with the bottom of the cage he can hear the whoops of the crowd, all eyes on him.   
He carefully slides a hand around a bar and starts muscling his way up the side using nothing more than his arms till he's even with Marie and only then slipping the toes of his sneakers between the bars to take the strain off his back and shoulders, leaning to blow kisses to her through the steel bars just for looks.   
  


-~-~-~

  
Coulson really didn't expect him to agree to that, but the sloppy salute gets him to grin and he orders a whiskey with a little water in it as he slides onto a barstool and leans against the padded edge of the bar.  
Barton's showing off now, working his ass and Coulson snorts as the girls try to get all over him before he ducks out and keeps going. The music is awful, but it's kind of catchy, and he drums his fingers on the bar in time with the beat.  
Usually – almost always – when he's seen Barton climb like this, he's in a tac vest. It's perfectly obvious that he's strong, but Coulson's never seen the way his back muscles bunch and strain.  
He never  _needed_ to see that, and he shifts in his seat.  
Barton's up on the cage now, the tapered muscles just above his ass showing, and he wants to get up there, pull his pants up.  
He's not jealous.  
Barton blowing kisses, grinding on the cage, sliding around the bars, hands reaching up to touch him until he's out of reach and humping the metal.  
Okay. This is not going the way he had planned. He just wanted to know why Barton looked so damned sneaky when he left, didn't expect to end up in a club. Didn't expect to  want this badly, to be jealous over his co-worker, to want to grab him and take him into the restroom and growl and bite and mark him up so no one else would touch.  
And the tie – Barton's got the thin end between his teeth so it doesn't get lost, the rest draped over him still, part of it hanging in a mild loop against sweat-slicked chest.  
This is going to kill him, he just knows.  
"Here, you're going to want this," says a voice behind him, and Coulson turns to see the bartender from earlier holding out a black leather collar from his fingertips, his expression one of smug satisfaction.  
He startles and turns, takes it, a little baffled at first – what the hell does he want with a scale-model belt?  “Oh,” he says under his breath, and takes it almost gingerly. “What, he likes that kind of thing?”  
The bartender arches an eyebrow, head dropping with a very clear 'You have to be kidding me' expression. "No point in keeping a pet around if no one knows he's yours, now, is it?" And before Coulson can reply, the man walks off to take care of other patrons.  
That's embarrassing. Is it that obvious? He tucks the collar into his trouser pocket – it doesn't exactly fit, but it will do – and continues watching Clint. Maybe he'll ditch the collar at some point, when they leave or when he can get near a trash can.  
He can't put a collar on him. That's just a bridge too far – a bridge on the River Kwai, at Remagen. Bad idea.  
But he leaves off drumming his fingers on the bar and takes the collar out again, rolling leather between fingertips as he sips his drink and watches.  
  


-~-~-~

  
The song ends and Marie shimmies out of the cage and onto the catwalk, Clint following her. When he steps onto the grating beside her he gets only a half-second warning before she grabs his shoulders and jumps up, long legs wrapping around his hips, platform boots locking at the ankle around the small of his back.   
"So," she says conversationally, biting at his bottom lip and letting it drag slowly between her teeth before licking her own lips. "Who's your friend?"   
His hands slide over her knees, under her thighs, and grab her ass before backing her up against the railing of the catwalk. Clint smirks and nuzzles against her neck, looking over her shoulder at the bar to look for Coulson.   
"Oh, nobody in particular," he says and nips at her neck, nuzzling up under the curve of her chin before placing a soft kiss to her lips.   
"Uh huh, sure," Marie says, smiling up at him. She wiggles out of his hands to slide down his front till her boots are on the grating again. "Have fun, honey. Don't break all the boys and girls!" She says before sashaying away, Clint smiling and shaking his head.   
  


-~-~-~

  
  
  
Coulson sees the girl wrap around him, the legs at his back, the way she bites his mouth and he grabs her ass; Barton's taunting him, and he clenches the collar between his fingers.   
There's something easy between them; he's nuzzling and she's kissing him, but there's no passion there. It doesn't look intense, but it still makes him bristle. He thinks Barton's looking at him, but he can't tell, red light reflecting in the sunglasses and anyway it's too far. Barton can almost certainly see him. Probably see the sweat above his ear; it's too damned hot in here.   
And anyway, where the hell is it supposed to go? Fraternization's at least technically a no-no. They're both busy, both working, both living in Avengers Tower and they'll never hear the end of it if the others find out.   
So what the hell?   
  


-~-~-~

  
It's a little bit amazing.   
He's been dragged to the occasional club over the years – in Qatar, in the Philippines, in Fayettenam. It never struck him as anything more than ridiculous gyrations.   
This – it's different. This ramps him up, and he wants to go pull Barton out of the fucking cage because he shouldn't show off like that.   
Barton's isolating like a belly-dancer, sliding hands over sweaty skin and moving his hips in perfect sync with the beat.   
He can see why they're catcalling and whistling; the spots set off every cut and fill of rib and muscle, the gleam of sweat and teeth.   
The archer tips his head up, jaw and throat painted red by light, and he wants to see that horizontal, spread out and veins throbbing under his thumb.   
Barton's in his element, turning as he dances to make sure everyone gets an eyeful, and even from here Coulson can see him smile.   
  


-~-~-~

  
When Clint finally saunters down the side stairs fifteen minutes later sweaty and flushed, Josh meets him at the corner and set Clint's backpack with Coulson's jacket on top onto the bar. "Here, you'll need these," he said and Clint quirked an eyebrow; he figured that he could get under Coulson's skin, but not *that* well.  
Not bothering with his spare shirt, he slings his backpack over his shoulder and saunters towards where Coulson is sitting on a barstool and staring at him darkly. Clint smiles, more than a little smug because from this close he can see the sheen of sweat on his skin and he knows that it can't be all from the heat in the room.  
"Guess I'm about done for the night, sir. Here's your stuff back," and his tone is overly casual, one thumb hooked in the strap of his backpack. “You were asking something about my going rates for the night?”  
  
Barton's temples are soaked with sweat, the hair slicked into spikes, the scent rolling off him, fresh and damp. Coulson barks a laugh at the question – fucking Barton, of course he remembered that wisecrack.  
“Yeah. It's midnight. How much for eight hours?”  
He grabs the jacket, slings it over his shoulder, hooked on two fingers. The pistol's in there; he can feel it bump his back, and he steps into Barton's space, makes him take a step back toward the wall.  
“I have a nice job. I'd pay good money.”  
A couple of people look over, a little surprised, and the idea of this being some tawdry pick-up job gives him a little frisson. “There's a hotel not far from here.”  
  
"Is that so? Well," Clint says, because fuck, people are looking and he's riding on a rare adrenaline high, so he takes another step back until he can lean his shoulders against the wall, hips rolling forward. "Sounds like an offer I can't refuse." He nods his head to the side, showing Coulson where one of the back exits is.  
He pulls off the shades and tilts his head to the side, blinking slowly as his eyes adjust to the change in light. "You ready to get out of here......sir?" And he licks his lips slowly before biting at the bottom one, still tender from where Marie got him. He knows it's all incredibly over-the-top and cheesy, but he's having the time of his life. That's when he notices the movement at waist level and glances down to see a strip of leather with a silver buckle clutched in Coulson's fist, and his eyes widen just slightly.  
  
....holy shit.  
  
He's rolling his sleeves down already, and yanks his jacket on as Barton gestures with his eyes to the exit. The collar's been in his hand so long he practically forgot about it, and when he sees Barton's eyes go wide, he stuffs it in his jacket pocket, grabs his upper arm possessively.  
“Come on,” he growls, and no, it's not quite perp-walking him, but close. That lip-licking gave him a jolt, and he's not gentle with arm as he pushes the door open.   
“You always dance like that? I might have to get out more often.”  
Outside, the air is finally cool, breeze sweeping in off the river, and it chills his face but hasn't gotten through the suit yet. Barton, on the other hand, goosebumps and shudders after a few seconds.  
He's going to have to make that happen again.  
  
Clint slips his other arm through the straps of his backpack and crosses them across his chest, shivering again slightly. "Don't always dance like that....sometimes it's the pole instead of a cage..." and he fights to keep a straight face.  
  
A  _stripper pole?_ In front of a whole _ club?_  
He growls again, pulls him along. It's a cheap motel that he saw on the walk down here, the no-tell motel kind, the kind some of the guys got when they wanted to cut loose and play poker all night when they couldn't get away with it in the barracks.  
The cheaper the better, he thinks.  
“What do I get for two hundred?” he asks, and he has no idea if that's low or high, just a number he throws out.  
  
There's that tension that's been between him and Coulson for months now, pulling tighter and tighter and fuck if it's not about to snap him clean in half when he hears Coulson say that, when he *knows* now that he means it, and he plants his feet to jerk back hard against Coulson's grip.  
When his handler stops and turns he steps in close, close enough to feel the heat from the club seeping through his dress shirt, Clint dips his head to Coulson's ear and exhales hard across the sweat-damp skin, tongue darting out to taste.  
"Two hundred? For two hundred you get whatever the fuck you want."  
  
It's all he can do not to snap his hips forward against Clint, but he keeps his grip tight, the rest of him loose. “I'm gonna get my money's worth,” he says, and twitches away from the lick, because it's dark but not  that dark.

-~-~-~

  
Coulson forks over his throw-away credit card and signs the register with the fake name on the card, shrugs off his jacket and hangs it over a shoulder.  The clerk doesn't even give them a second glance – this is the kind of place where drift trade is the order of the day.  
He's sure he's left fingerprints in bicep, but they haven't bruised yet, and Barton follows him as soon as he has the key with the big plastic tab. The door sticks but he shoulders it open then drags Barton in and shoves him up against the wall, bites collarbone as he kicks the door shut.  
  
Clint's head cracks back against the wall hard and he winces, mostly from the sharp edge of Coulson's teeth set over thin skin and bone, and his fingers scrabble hard against the damn dress shirt, trying to tear it off and out of his way.  
"Fuck," he whimpers as Coulson's growl reverbs through his own chest and his over eager fingers finally manage to pop the first couple of buttons on the shirt before ripping through the rest, pushing it back over his shoulders.  
  
“Mine,” Coulson says, and the collar is in his palm. His shirt is half-off and he reaches out like he's going to hug Barton, wraps the leather around neck before he can get the shirt down enough to immobilize his arms.  
Barton stops cold, and he buckles it in front, then sticks two fingers up under the leather and yanks him close. “No asset of mine is out there dancing like a rentboy,” he says against ear. “Not without something – you're  mine. ”  
He growls and Barton goes rigid between him and the wall; Coulson flattens himself against tense body for a moment, then pulls out the roll of emergency cash from his pocket and tucks it into Barton's hand.   
“Two-fifty. Impress me.”  
  
The leather is still warm from being in Coulson's hand, and his breath catches in his throat. A swallow and hands pushing away till there's space for him to drop to his knees, looking up through thick lashes as he rubs his face against the hard ridge of Coulson's dick.  
"Like this?" Clint asks, and licks a wet, messy line up the front of Coulson's slacks. There's more adrenaline flooding into his system than the last three missions combined, and all he can think is how the hell they're going to work this out without supplies because he wants Coulson to tear him apart.  
  
The way Barton shoves back and drops down damned near undoes him, and that catlike rub on his dick – fuck.  
He drags in a ragged breath, pulls him closer with fingers in hair.  
“Just like that. Take it out, suck me.”  
Nails in scalp and Barton doesn't seem to mind; he unzips slacks and Coulson closes his eyes.  
“Don't make me come. I'll take that money back if you do.”  
He rakes the dyed tips of hair back and there's red on his fingers.  
“Slut,” he whispers, and sighs, wraps a calf around back and clenches his hand in hair again. “More.”  
  
Eyes pinched closed tight, it's always easier after a couple of shots, but on Clint's third try he manages to block out that fucking terrifying fear of not being able to breathe and relaxes; a deep breath and then he just pushes. Clint’s eyes are watering as he leans in until his forehead is pressed against Coulson's stomach, jaw aching as he swallows hard around the cock that's filling up his mouth and pressing down into his throat.  
He can only hold it for a few seconds before pulling back to suck on the head, long tongue sliding underneath and pressing hard up against the vein. Coulson's tie is still hanging around his neck, easy enough to pull free - he looks up and give his best _fuck me_ face before deftly using the red silk to wrap a figure eight around Coulson's balls and the base of his cock, a makeshift cockring. He lets Coulson's dick slide out of his mouth slowly, spit and precum smeared across his mouth and chest.  
"Don't worry, you don't get to come until I let you," he says and takes just a moment to appreciate the shock in Coulson's eyes.  
  
He's talented, good enough that Coulson wonders if he  is  hustling on the side. He’s heard of deep throating but never had it done, certainly didn’t think it would be like that, and he groans, fists a hand into hair and almost pulls him forward again when he starts to back off. He grabs the tie in one hand, chin in the other.  
“Like hell,” he growls, although Barton's got good motivation.  “Take it off,” he says – there's no point in fumbling with it when Barton knows just how it's tied. “Then get on the bed, on your knees.”  
Getting sucked, especially getting his dick down throat, is good. But he wants to mount and fuck and make Barton scream, and a tie around his dick isn't going to help.  
  
It's damn satisfying to see just how close to the edge he can get Coulson, pushing all his buttons at once. Clint smirks up at his handler, chin still held still by tense fingers. "Sir, yes sir," he drawls and easily unties the knot, pulling out of Coulson's hand enough to grab the end of the silk in his teeth, unraveling the figure eight as he leans back, enjoying the look on Coulson’s face.  
He stands up slowly, dragging their bodies together as he goes, and shudders when Coulson grabs the front of his jeans to squeeze his dick hard. "Fuck," he gasps, red tie still clenched in his teeth as his neck arches back and eyes close. Coulson’s a right-handed shooter and it shows; Clint's hips buck against his palm. Suddenly the pressure’s gone and he whines, gives Coulson a dirty look and then steps around him to the bed.  
He toes off his shoes and socks, but leaves on the jeans just to piss him off. Hands and knees and Clint crawls to the middle of the bed, flexing the muscles in his shoulders hard and letting his hips roll with the movement; he glances back over his shoulder to give him a dark look.  
  
He growls and takes the tie back, advances with it in his hand, and yes, that's a nice view but not what he wanted.  
“Lose the pants,” he says. “I paid for this.”  
He kneels on the bed and the mattress sags, but he doesn't care, just sticks two fingers under the collar and twists down.  
“You said for two hundred I get whatever I want. I gave you two-fifty. I expect some obedience.”  
  
His eyes close and Clint has to take a breath before he can reply because fuck if that doesn't push all of his buttons to hear Coulson say shit like that.   
"Yes sir," and this time, he makes sure it means something completely different.  
Dropping his chest to the bed, shoving his ass in the air, and Clint doesn't even bother with the button or zipper, just grabs the waistband and wiggles out of the pants before kicking them to the floor, cock arching up to leave a smear of precum across his abs and making him shiver.  
His hands naturally settle above his head, flat against the mattress and Clint looks up at Coulson, pupils blown, voice rasping. "Please, sir."  
  
Fuck.  
  
“Better,” Coulson says, and loops the tie around lean wrists, knots it almost tight. “Now.” Clint looks like he's been soaked in lust, and he knows he must not look much better. He nudges chin up with fingers. “You have a name? Or should I just tell you to do that little trick again?”  
It's stupid, but the idea of this being a random pick-up, something he'd never do, it gets him, pools desire in the pit of his belly.  
  
"Aaron," he says, licking his lips and his heart is pounding in his chest because he'd never let anyone else put a collar on him, twist it tight and fuck him senseless. But this is different, and he closes his eyes because he's practically dizzy from being so damn turned on at the thought of some stranger doing this.  
  
He huffs a little laugh.  
“ Aaron. Nice.” He lets go and gets off the bed, toes off his shoes and strips off his pants and lets them fall in a licentious puddle on the floor before he kneels on the bed again. His shirt's still half-off, and he shrugs it free, drops it. “Do that thing with your mouth again,” he says, and pulls him closer by the collar, not being gentle. “Get it nice and slick.”  
  
Clint just smirks up at him, barely gives himself time to take a half-breath before relaxing his jaw and sliding his mouth down over Coulson's cock, the thick head hitting the back of his throat and before he can think about it he relaxes farther and deep throats him. Coulson's hand spasms and jerks the collar even tighter but he keeps going, slowly bobbing his head and letting all the spit gather in his mouth and not swallow.  
  
“ Oh, God,” he breathes, and he can't tear his eyes away from the sight, Barton's face up against his belly. He lets up on the collar with an effort before pushing him slowly; he can feel every movement, every bump in there, and if this goes on too much longer he'll lose it.  
“Gonna fuck you,” he says, and it comes out like a tire over gravel. “See how you dance.”  
This is going to lead to nothing but trouble, and he doesn't give a shit about the fallout.  
  
His eyes are watering, smearing the liner, and he finally has to pull back most of the way to take a gulping breath around Coulson's dick. Clint can tilt his head up a bit now to look at him, smug as he circles his tongue around the head and hollowing his cheeks to suck at it. His own dick is aching and dripping when he reaches down to stroke it, fist tight, eyes fluttering back closed and his moan is muffled by the cock in his mouth.  
  
The look – Jesus, Barton loves this. With the eyeliner smeared around, he looks incredibly trashy, cheap.  
He  _wants._  
The touch, though, is unacceptable, and he swats hand out of the way, grabs the tie between them.  
“Fuck no, Aaron,” he growls. “Hands off. I bought that. Mine.”  
He moves behind him, straddling calves, his dick bumping ass, and grabs wrists, immobilizing them as he gets the tie undone. Re-binds him, hands behind back, and that's better – the silk picks up the tinge on his hair.  
Rough, yes, but he realizes they have nothing – no lube, not even lotion in a cheap place like this, so he works his mouth and drops a glob of spit onto one asscheek.  
  
Face pressed into the mattress, Clint whimpers as his hands are untied only long enough for them to be jerked roughly behind his back and retied, pressing his chest and shoulders farther into the bed and leaving him feeling that much more exposed.  
There's a wet splat on his ass and he shivers as the spit starts sliding across his skin and down his crack, making him arch up even more, not giving a damn how slutty he looks because he wants Coulson to fuck him, split him in half now.  
  
The whimper almost ruins him, and he growls and spits into his fingers, rubs it in with the rest and gets two fingers halfway in.  
Barton's gasping under him.  It’s almost a shame that it's so fucking hot; he could watch this for hours, and he knows he's not going to last  that  long, not when he can do whatever he likes.  
A little more spit and he gets his fingers all the way in and crooks them just right, gets a little sob in exchange.  
He reaches up, grabs collar again and pulls to make Barton arch back off the bed, twist his neck to show off the smeared makeup and swollen mouth and how he rasps against the constriction.  
It's not right for someone to be that flexible.  
“Ready?”  
  
“Fuck! Goddamnit would you just-” and the last of Clint’s desperate begging is cut off in a guttural moan at the tight burn of Coulson's cock pressed against his hole, and then release as Coulson slides into him hard and thick. It's too much and he falls forward, face buried against the mattress and he keens at the pressure and pain.  
His fingers are spasming, scratching at the small of his own back where that damn tie has them wrapped up trying to find something, anything to hold on to, and he has to turn his head to the side, gasping in a breath. "Fuck, fuck-" and Coulson hasn't let up since the first stroke, just a steady even rhythm that has Clint working hard to breathe around it, just hold on because he's about to come all over his own chest.  
"Please, touch....fucking touch me," Clint begs, trying to roll his hips back to match Coulson's.  
  
“No,” he growls, one hand gripping shoulder, the other still in the collar. It's too fucking good like this, watching him, and part of him distantly wonders if this is how he moves on the stripper pole.  
With an effort, he pulls out, leans down to bury teeth in the very top of his asscheek.  
It'll show if he wears those ratty jeans again, an unmistakable mark of possession right there for everyone to see.  
He's not possessive of most things. Barton, however, is not most things, and he licks over the mark and rubs fingers over his hole just to drive him crazy.  
  
"FUCK!" Clint's knees almost buckle when sharp teeth sink into muscle, strong hands holding his hips still, and he's whimpering a little because he can feel just how bad that bite is going to bruise. Part of him wants to be done right then and there, wants to come so bad because his balls fucking ache and it feels like he's about to explode.  
But he remembers the cash stuffed into his hand and just for that he draws in a deep breath and focuses; Clint's a show-off and a competitive bastard, and hell if he isn't going to be the best damn rentboy Coulson's ever dreamed of.  
The fingers tracing across him make him shudder, and he instinctively pushes back against them. "Please, yeah, please," he rasps, voice low and gravelly. He spreads his knees a little wider for balance and can twist his head around to watch Coulson, eyes almost black.  
"Please."  
  
It's too much, the begging, and he licks the small of his back again before he slides up and in again.  
“Fuck, yes.” It comes out in a snarl as he wraps fingers around deltoid and leans down, not caring about trapping bound hands under his belly or whether Barton can breathe.  
This is  _owning_ _,_ mounting and pinning him down, bruising and taking. He drags teeth over skin, the pleas and panting and Barton's desperate movements inordinately satisfying, the hot wet slap of sweaty skin.  
He's close, and wraps a hand around Barton's cock – then squeezes tight around the base as he comes with a shuddery groan.  
  
Trigger finger calluses rough on his dick, and he's gone.  
Coulson is pumping into him, filling him up, and Clint is spurting all over the ratty comforter, splashes of white against the fabric and across his chest. Coulson doesn't stop right away, keeps going with these half-stuttering thrusts that force groans and gasps out of Clint's throat as he rides out the end of his own orgasm, shuddering and wet. With one last hard thrust, Clint's knees finally give out and he goes sprawling across the bed.  
  
Coulson goes down too, easing down to lie on Barton's back as he pants rough breaths for a moment.  
He pulls out with a little groan and flops onto his back; wiping the sweat from his forehead would take too much effort, and he just stays still, letting the world fade back in slowly.  
“Fuck.”  
He reaches over and loosens the tie, then slides it off.  
“That work for you,  Aaron? ”  
  
He almost chokes on a laugh and clears his throat before turning his head to look at his handler. "Doesn't matter - did you get your money's worth?"   
  
“I thought I paid for the whole night,” he says. “You don't drive a very hard bargain.”  
Barton lying there, the eyeliner faded into dark smudges and the hair with hand-holds in it, the maddening fug of sweat – he never expected to see that, and he drags his wrist up, tries to focus.  
“ I believe I have six-point-four hours left.”  
  
Clint groans and buries his head in the pillows.  
"Fuck you very much, sir. I call at least a ten-minute time out after that," and he stretches and wiggles for a moment before sprawling half on top of Coulson, smearing his come between them, Clint's mouth pressed against the ball of his shoulder. "I've already been working half the night, ya know," he says, yawning for dramatic effect, but his eyes are bright and sharp as he stares at Coulson.  
  
That actually gets more of a laugh, and when Barton crawls onto him he growls again and wraps an arm around him.  
“Ten minutes? I was thinking more like an hour. Not all of us are young go-go dancers.”  
He closes his eyes, feeling mouth on his shoulder, the slick between them, but he can feel the stare and opens them again.  
“I wanted to do that since New Mexico,” he says simply, and wonders how the hell he got so lucky as to have this man lying on him.  
  
Clint's smile is so wide it actually hurts his face, and he climbs a bit closer till he can nuzzle at Coulson's neck. He noses at the curve of jaw, taking in the smells of sweat and sex, the club and _ them_. When they kiss he can taste whiskey and a Helix cigar. "What, you've wanted to drag some gogo dancer to a seedy motel, put a leather collar on his neck, and fuck him senseless?"  
“Smartass.”  
"New Mexico, huh? If I'd realized all it would take was one cage dance, I'd have shown you months ago."   
“Not exactly,” he says, and flushes a little, but he runs a finger around the inside of the collar. “And you should've.”  
The collar looks great on him, and he tips his head aside to allow more of the nuzzling, kneads at shoulderblade and scratches gently down back.  
“I'd tell you to wear this more, but if the others find out, we'll never hear the end of it.”  
  
"Fuck 'em, I don't care." And Clint really  doesn't give a damn what anyone else has to say about this, because he's loose and relaxed in a way he can't ever remember being. He doesn't feel like he needs to watch his back, because he knows it's already covered. "You want me to wear this?" he asks, curious as he leans into the warm hand pressed to his neck.  
  
  
“Um.” Coulson frowns a little, looks up at him, the way he leans in and the warmth of throat against his knuckles. “Yeah. A better one.” He could tell him about the bartender, but that would ruin it. “Something... right here.” He touches a little lower, just above the hollow of throat.  
“No point in keeping a pet around if no one knows he's yours, right?”  
  
Clint watches him with sharp eyes, mentally shifting through everything, taking into account variables and potential blind spots in the plan before smiling and leaning down to kiss him again, hard and wet and maybe just a little possessive himself.  
"Yeah, sounds good to me," and he drags the covers up to their shoulders. "Purple leather," he mutters around a yawn before settling back down.  "Wake me up in an hour if you want - I've waited too long to sleep like this."  
  
                                                                -~-~-~  
  
It's not unusual for Barton to disappear, sometimes for days when he's on some secret SHIELD assassination mission. Equally often he's just sleeping late or already out on the range.  
Coulson, on the other hand, is clockwork: six a.m., he's out there in the kitchen, coffee in hand, doing the _ Daily News_ sudoku.  
Without fail.  
So when he's not there, it's puzzling.  
No one has seen Coulson since sometime last night when he said he was going downstairs; JARVIS lost track of him when he left the first-floor Starbucks'.  
By eleven a.m., he's turning a torque wrench in his shop and seriously considering calling Fury. This isn't like Coulson at all.  
 _Another half-hour_ _,_ he thinks, although he's decided that three times now.  
  
“Agents Coulson and Barton have returned, sir,” JARVIS says mildly, and he goes sprinting up the stairs, the engine the last thing on his mind.  
  
“Where the hell were you, Agent Coulson? I was about to call Fury, you're  never  gone in the morning -”  
  
They both look like shit. Tony wasn't aware that Coulson was constitutionally  capable of looking like shit.  
Barton looks like he hasn't slept in days; his hair's a mess and his eyes almost look like he's been in a fight.  
Coulson's suit appears to have been slept in or on, and then he notices.  
  
Barton's got some kind of ratty leather thing worn shiny where the roller-front buckle used to sit two sizes ago . There's a ring hanging just under his Adam’s apple.  
“The fuck is – are you wearing a  collar? ”  
  
“Yeah. Problem, Stark?”  
  
It's embarrassing, how long it takes; he can create cold fusion with a box of Lunchables, but it takes him an outrageously long time to add it up, looking between them.  
  
“Oh,” he says.  
“Oh,” Coulson says, like this shit happens every day.  
“Huh,” Barton adds.  
  
“Okay, then,” is all he can think to say. “I'm ….working on the Shelby. Glad you guys are safe.” He turns to go, turns back and gestures to his own neck. “Ya know, I could make you a custom- “   
  
“No.”  It comes out in stereo.  
  
"Right, right. I'll just... go back to the car." He takes the stairs two at a time, already sketching designs in his head. He should be able to have them a new one by tomorrow evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to: Jeremy Renner and his ass; Glitch Mob, Buddy; and "Liam" the dancer for the inspiration, dance moves, and resemblance to a certain archer. Kudos also to the ever-unflappable Clark Gregg, Santogold & our dear beta-readers [wintervioleteye](../../users/wintervioleteye/pseuds/wintervioleteye) and[sinope](../../users/Sinope/pseuds/Sinope).
> 
> ["Liam"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbgetBr_hKk): You can see Coulson at ["3:54"](http://youtu.be/fbgetBr_hKk?t=3m54s)
> 
> Sountrack available [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLo2i0kUmCjETqMXzCeuK3HBRohUUrpBr5)  
> Billy Idol: Rebel Yell  
> Glitch Mob: Seven Nation Army  
> Groove Coverage: Poison  
> Santogold: Creator  
> Buddy: Milkshake  
> Pussycat Dolls: Buttons  
> Thirty Seconds to Mars: Bad Romance  
> Jack White: Love is Blindness  
> Marilyn Manson: Tainted Love


End file.
